


Petrichor

by ravenhairedtrickster



Category: Jupiter Ascending
Genre: Blood, M/M, Sibling Rivalry, Tags to be added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-06
Updated: 2015-10-09
Packaged: 2018-03-10 18:30:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3299552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravenhairedtrickster/pseuds/ravenhairedtrickster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Caine's back itches as he presses his finger to the screen against his better judgement, it's a fair trade, protection for his wings – the pad wavers in Balem's grasp, Caine steadies it before it falls entirely from trembling fingers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Caine Wise hates it, the touch screen before him, how it's blinking urgently, it could only be worse if there was sound. The symbols displayed are ancient, too old for him to read. Regardless, Caine knows what they spell. 

Balem Abrasax holds the contract out to him with care, his eyes deep pools, unreadable. It's in them that Caine sees age, archaic imprints in colour far too many times renewed; Balem has lived hundreds of thousands of millennia, even the wrinkles that gather like crows feet fail to reveal that. 

Royalty is not to be trusted, especially royalty as old as this.

Caine's back itches as he presses his finger to the screen against his better judgement, it's a fair trade, protection for his wings – the pad wavers in Balem's grasp, Caine steadies it before it falls entirely from trembling fingers. 

He knows this fragility, the long suffering sighs coming from Balem, how compared to Titus and Kalique he is sickly, fading far more quickly between doses. 

He sees the tremor in Balem's fingers just before Chicanery Night appears, nasally and muttering information on the latest harvest of a planet called Astora; one hundred percent yield but not of the finest quality or grade. The mousey creature takes the contract before scurrying away.

Balem presses his fingers together, anxiety perhaps.

Caine tries not to stare, averts his eyes because Balem is no fool and it would be unwise to start off on the wrong foot so early on. So he ignores the trembling and low shaky breaths and follows Balem when he makes to depart the roomy area they stand in. 

Caine follows a respectable two feet behind out of courtesy for the exalted position Balem holds, and maybe, if he's being honest, out of wariness. Balem is the most unpredictable of all the Abrasax dynasty, while Titus only wants the pleasures of the flesh and Kalique cares for nothing but her own beauty, Balem is as cold and as distant as the space his ship floats through. 

There's a danger in that but right now Caine only scents weakness, maybe fear in the sweat that now plasters Balem's hair to his temple. The trembling becomes worse as they walk, Balem's easy glide turned into a stumbling affair that catches Caine off guard – yet he maintains his distance, unwilling to help unless asked. 

When they reach their destination he chastises himself for not thinking of the obvious. 

The bath is large, more like a pool. It spreads out like glass, unaffected by the ships movement. The gravity for this room is tailored to it's existence. Running along the waters undisturbed length is, well, space. From where Caine stands it looks like the water melds into the void beyond, a fiery looking planet dominating the majority of the view. 

He's never liked space travel, always too cramped, contained and trapped. Here, however, Caine finds it beautiful and he almost misses the sweet scent of bared skin in his daydreaming. 

Balem sheds his robes with a shrug, revealing too pale flesh, the nape of his neck heavily freckled. His body tapering to narrow hips and an equally freckled buttocks. 

Caine stares though Balem must feel his gaze, he stares openly, hungrily at the delicate body revealed – a dying body, Balem stumbles before catching himself and sinking into the seemingly tepid water. 

Caine watches him disappear beneath it's surface, a ripple ruining the illusion of glass. For a long moment he thinks Balem may be dead but no sooner does the water shift and glow and he sees tendrils of colour peaking. They twist and turn in the dark liquid. When they subside some seconds later Balem emerges, smelling of petrichor, his youth renewed. Caine notes his eyes still hold the haunted look only an immortal could have, a weariness that betrays the smooth features and lack of physical defects.

“I didn't contract you to stare,” Balem says evenly, his voice so broken Caine almost has mind to ask what went wrong with the serum. 

“Sorry,” Caine mutters quickly, his gaze falling. He hurriedly adds: “Your majesty.”

“That doesn't mean I forbid you to.”

The tips of his ears feel like their on fire, burning with embarrassment at Balem's strained words. He bares his teeth at his reflection in the black tiled floor, regaining his composure before raising his eyes – but not quite to Balem's level, status dictates his submission so Caine stares at the hollow at the base of Balem's elegant throat.

He has mind to apologize again, or test the waters, see how far Balem will let him tread but Chicanery interrupts. Caine almost starts, been too distracted to realize the weasels presence.

“Apologies, your majesty,” he chimes, Caine hears his clothing rustle as he bows curtly. “But there's an urgent message.”

“Continue,” Balem murmurs. 

Caine hears Balem's pulse quicken. 

“It's not exactly good news,” Chicanery says sounding nervous. “Sources confirm Titus' cyber hunters have found a natural, complete recurrence.”

“Of whom.”

Caine watches Balem pull a near translucent robe seemingly out of thin air, draping around himself in a poor excuse for decency. 

“Your mother.”

Chicanery's words were met with silence though Caine doesn't understand their weight. 

Balem appears to ponder this for a few long seconds. He presses the tips of his fingers together before him, inhaling slowly. 

“This of course threatens your entire inheritance, Gods the forms this will involve..” 

Chicanery trails off.

“On what planet was she found?”

“Earth, due for harvest in a few decades, so far yield is slated to be high above average. It will render priceless serum.”

“However, my mother wrote her future self into her will,” Balem paces now, aggravated, his face twisted angrily. “Titus has mind to do one thing and one thing only. He looks to bind her to his will then kill her. It will all become his, my rightful inheritance.”

Caine shifts. From where he stands he is practically suffocating in Chicanery's fear scent.

“Send Greeghan. I want her dead before Titus can lay a finger on her.”

“Yes, your majesty.” 

Caine listens as Chicanery leaves. His fear scent lingers a while longer but even that disappears moments later.

“I want you close,” Balem says, voice barely above a whisper. “At my side until I harvest Earth.”

Caine nods. It's a fair trade, he reminds himself. Protection in exchange for his wings. It's worth it even if he's in contract for years to come.

Balem brushes past him and he follows without question. 

_tbc_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't mind me playing with these two and this universe for a bit. More, yes, no?


	2. Chapter 2

She wears a wedding dress, tailored expertly to hug every curve and it would be beautiful had red flowers not dripped down it's white jewelled length like blood leaking from an open wound. 

Caine detests her the moment Greeghan deposits her at Balem's feet. 

Jupiter Jones reeks of fear, sweat and something Caine can't quite place – royalty, a faint familiarity where the lines of genetics blur, but it's not exactly the petrichor of Balem's exposed flesh. 

If she thinks to grovel there's no time for it. 

Caine holds his position to Balem's right, his palm brushing the gun at his thigh though he hardly expects to need it. 

“Finish this,” Balem says after what feels like hours and Greeghan grips Jupiter's hair and pulls her head back. 

Caine watches the reptilian brandish a wicked blade – her throat parts to the knife like butter, fissuring open and blood spills past the torn edges of her skin, runs down the plains of her chest before disappearing into the valley between her breasts. 

It squirts too, with each fluttering heart beat Caine listens as her life drains away onto the floor beneath, catching between the tiles and dripping to some point beyond – where exactly Caine has never been. 

When she crumbles to her side, still, the last dregs of air getting caught in her throat Caine hears Balem's ragged exhale. 

The dark leather of his legs is flecked with blood, it drips downward. Caine watches a few rivulets scandalously traverse Balem's foot before settling and falling away between his toes. There's a horror now in Balem's posture, his body language frozen with shock, disgust clouds his eyes.

“Throw the body into the void,” Balem hisses quietly, shakily. The pallor of his face changes, paling until the slopes of his cheeks become a negative backdrop for space, his freckles clustered constellations. 

Balem presses his fingers together. He seems far away as Greeghan hauls Jupiter's body over his shoulder, blood dripping in an uneven trail in the wake of his gait. 

Caine doesn't sense weakness as he stands there awaiting Balem's orders, he can smell nothing but the thick, coppery scent of blood. He notes Balem remains still, near statue-like if not for the expansion of his chest with each breath. 

When finally he comes back to himself there's a helplessness in the way he takes a fumbling step backwards, not at all the easy glide Caine is usually privy to from the eldest Abrasax. A deep inhale later and it's all gone, that fragile glimpse of the royal lost in the dignified straightening of his spine, Balem's chin held high as he turns on his heels.

Caine drops his gaze but watches Balem's movements reflected in Jupiter's blood, how Balem shifts like a snake waiting to strike, conservative but powerful and hidden in the folds of his robes – even the golden collar (not a common fashion statement) set at the base of his throat does nothing to undermine the raw force of his birthright. 

“Come,” Balem breathes, passing mere inches from where Caine stands. 

Caine eyes the splotchy red that Balem's feet leave behind, marring the otherwise pristine flooring of the ship, and knows by the time they pass this way again there will be no trace of Jupiter Jones. 

A winding walk later Caine paces in the depths of Balem's chambers, the colours brass and dark as they swallow up the dim lighting. He feels irritated, unnerved as Balem sheds his clothing, this is not the serum ripe waters Balem steps into this time around, though it's just as black. 

Caine continues to pace, feels rather out of place as Balem sighs softly, a content sound that wasn't meant to grace his sharp ears. The water ripples and steams, the tangy smell of soap reaches his nose, he dares a look to see Balem leaning heavily against the edge, fingers working obsessively between his toes. 

Caine finds it interesting Balem opted for a bath over a sonic shower – he loses his train of thought as Balem catches him staring. 

His eyes avert to a pale shoulder, dainty almost an Caine berates himself, it's certainly no better of a place to stare. His ears burn, his face heats and for a second he imagines his teeth secure on the nape of Balem's neck. 

“Are dogs always this shy?” Balem murmurs thoughtfully. When Caine doesn't reply he continues with his scrubbing, moving away from his bloodied feet, running his fingers up his arms, rinsing the suds away by submerging himself. He reappears a second later to climb from the water not at all appearing to care as it cascades down his body onto the floor. 

Caine is almost grateful for the sour scent as Chicanery appears, a welcome distraction from the sweet soapy floral that wafts from Balem's soaked skin. 

“Pardon the interruption, your majesty,” Chicanery starts, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “The forms have all been approved, your disposal of the recurrence won't be pursued nor should it affect any future claims.”

Caine watches Balem's face for any reaction to the news but there is none. 

“Security advised me to warn you that Titus isn't pleased.”

Balem's lips upturn ever so slightly at the corners, a farce of a proper smile but it's the most emotion from him that Caine has ever seen.

“My _brother_ ,” Balem spits the word, “has every right in the universe to be unhappy with my actions, however I am the sole heir to mothers estates and it will remain that way. He is a fool to think I would let something as silly as a little recurrence get in the way. Childish.”

“Your majesty,” Chicanery bows, agreeing. 

“I want security doubled until this has settled down.” 

Another bow and Chicanery hurries away. 

“He will try something,” Balem says.

Caine watches him pull on loose pants, like something a station whore might wear, hanging low on his hips and bunching at the knees – Caine recalls seeing a similar get up in a harem once upon a time when he was still affiliated with the Legion. 

A few thick, gold bracelets later and Balem steps close, bare chested. 

His words are fire in Caine's ear.

“Stay alert, unlike me, Titus has no issue putting down rabid dogs.” Balem moves away, his face steel as he stares out into the vastness of space, fingertips pressed together. “Doesn't favour their company, as I do.”

Caine exhales heavily. 

"Yes, your majesty."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't expect the response this fic got when I posted it. Thank you all for the feedback! I've been busy and haven't gotten to replying but gosh, wow! I feel like I can't live up to the first bit but I hope I did it some justice.


	3. Chapter 3

Balem walks a few feet ahead of Caine, movements languid, however there's an amusement in the way his sandal clad feet sink into the sand. It's an environment he never thought to picture Balem in. 

Detrios is a welcome break from the refinery and the ship, the four sunned planet beautiful – Balem walks its shores wearing blacks that ripple and shimmer, his ankles and feet exposed, hair tousled by the constant ocean breeze. 

“Do you do this often?” Caine asks casually. He eyes the device placed for convenience behind Balem's ear, hopes it remains untouched a while longer.

“No,” Balem says, his voice lost to the wind. “Sentimentality is a thing best forgotten, my mother often came to planets ripe for harvest, sat with the people, got to know them before their inevitable demise.”

Balem's stride falters, Caine stops beside him.

There's a crooked smile plastered over Balem's face, an expression that is as humourless as it is broken.

“She was a fool for letting such feelings manifest and blind her to our cause,” Balem hisses, his fingers twitch until he presses them together. “Time isn't without sacrifice.”

Caine almost whines as Detrios disappears, the cold, artificial lights of the refinery replacing the the warmth of the suns. 

“Mr. Night,” Balem says into the shadows and Chicanery's morphs from its depths. “That planet is to be harvested by tomorrow.” Chicanery says nothing, merely inclines his head and leaves. 

Caine stands stiff as Balem finds a perch in the plush of his favourite chair, it's constant hum as it hovers sedating. 

“Do not let anyone disturb me,” Balem says minutes later.

And Caine doesn't.

Balem remains motionless save for the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes and it's only when his head slips from the comfort of his upturned palm that Caine realizes he's asleep. Again there's a fragility in Balem and Caine would be lying if he said he hadn't thought upon how Balem might look when sleeping, boneless, vulnerable, all that power and age lost in the smoothness of his slack face – his lips pressed neatly together. 

Balem's robes are in disarray, his legs tucked together, ankles crossed, his toes curled. 

Caine sucks a sharp breath in, exhaling slowly as he steps closer. He examines Balem from mere feet away, watching each slow intake of air, notes the manner in which Balem's eyelashes splay over his cheeks, a stark comparison of colour. 

He sees the beginning of wrinkles already, at the corners of Balem's eyes, not at all off-putting in their nature. 

Caine stubbornly moves away, towards the vast window where he stares out at the refinery. It's ugly, resting on Jupiter's surface, surrounded by red gases, machinery obscuring any view worth seeing. 

Behind him Balem continues to sleep, Caine watches in the windows reflection, his hands clasped together behind him – his stance military in nature as he settles in for a long vigil. 

He drifts like this, eyes slipping shut as his old training kicks in. Everything seems to slow, the hum of the hover chair and Balem's pulse a metronome, keeps him focused. 

Caine's memories are a mess, unarchived and long since left to rot. He tugs at them now; the early days, how each lesson was learned with difficulty, how to fight, fly, Stinger present in each, his lessons of pack and the bonds formed within the ranks. 

Caine grasps at another, morosely wonders why it even happened, the urge to bite so prominent, how good it had felt to taste Entitled blood, how it seemed to ignite a fire within him – he remembers clawing the woman apart, not stopping even after he had crushed her throat and tore her open. 

He tastes her on his tongue now. 

Caine presses past that memory.

He's deep within himself when the sharp sound of heels clicking along the floor pierces the veil he's created.

With Balem's command yet engraved into his being, Caine turns and prowls to the sliding doors. He catches the intruder as she walks in. 

“His majesty has requested solitude,” Caine says, a low growl building in his throat. 

“Oh, my,” the woman says, eyeing him. She smiles kindly, flicks her wrist and her entourage of slaves Caine didn't notice disperse somewhere into the hall. “I didn't realize he had a guard dog.”

She shifts and Caine smells sugar, melted and thick, much like honey but no bee produces such a scent. Her eyes are familiar, hair dark and cheeks spotted with age – Caine realizes late that she holds herself like royalty. 

“No matter,” she says, looking over his shoulder. “I'll seek his company at a later date.”

With a flourish she leaves Caine standing there, her sweet smell left to wash over him for a few long breaths before he turns and stalks back to the window. 

As he withdraws once again Caine decides he doesn't trust her.

It might be hours later or days for that matter, time passes smoothly when Caine's busy, sifting through memories, thoughts, things he wishes to forget or keep. 

He senses Balem stirring before the royal actually opens his eyes, it's the whisper in the way Balem's pulse speeds ever so slightly, the sudden vary of his breath that hitches on the intake. 

Caine watches in fascination.

Balem moves like molasses, slow, still half asleep, a yawn cracks his usual stoic face as he rights himself. A long stretch bends the straight of his spine, curves it in a way that is certainly too sultry to be the result of post-sleep fatigue. 

Caine licks his lips, lowers his eyes, opting to solely listen to Balem's waking whilst differing to him. 

“Kalique was here,” Balem says, the shift of his robes accompanying his strained words. “What did she want?”

The name rings alarm bells. 

Caine shifts his weight, dread making his insides turn painfully. “I don't know,” he replies. “I sent her away not having realized she was your sister. Forgive my ignorance.” 

“You were following direct orders,” Balem murmurs softly, Caine hears his bare feet on the floor. “I would've been disappointed if you had disregarded them.”

“Yes, your majesty,” Caine says and tries his best not to sound overly relieved.

“Come,” Balem bids after a few seconds of silence. 

They walk through the fluorescent lit hallways of the refinery before coming to the mess hall. 

Caine has no inkling of the time, or how long he stood guarding Balem but it must be late for there is no one here. The various tables stand empty, not that he minds and he guesses Balem prefers it this way. 

The cook is a nervous creature with floppy brown ears that protrude from a mess of curly hair. He seems young, Caine wonders if this is his first job off whatever planet he was produced on. His name tag reads 'Marlowe'.

“Master Cook has already gone to sleep,” Marlowe informs them, a silly lilt to his words, an accent Caine has never heard before. “I've got last meal leftovers.”

“That will suffice,” Balem says and Marlowe hurries off into the back through a pair of white swinging doors. He returns minutes later with two steaming plates of, well, Caine doesn't know what exactly it is. 

He has mind to poke at it but refrains, it would appear childish and he refuses to appear as such in front of Balem.

“Kalique may pose no threat,” Balem says suddenly, working at cutting the food before him. “But she is not to be under estimated, her and Titus are close.”

Caine chews as he listens, the Abrasax politics not something he's ever really cared about, though it was hard to ignore no matter where he was in the system. 

Balem continues to talk as he cuts his food, having not taken a bite yet, separating bits and pieces here and there – it's much like he's separating the dark meat from the white meat. 

“Titus hasn't moved to contact me since Jupiter,” Balem murmurs. “This unsettles me. He's not one to wait so long before challenging me.” 

Caine swallows a particularly rich cut. His fingers spasm violently as his cutlery clatters to the table. Something's wrong, the realization comes too late.

He vaguely registers seeing shock on Balem's face; then, around him, the world blurs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Endless praise to the readers of this fic, you all flatter me too much.


	4. Chapter 4

Time passes in the form of touch and sound; his head throbs, cool fingers smooth over his brow, curl around tapered ears – nails bit to the beds scrape the nape of his neck, it sends shivers down Caine's spine and this reassures him he's still alive. Consciousness is a fleeting thing, seems to slip out of his grasp more often than not. His awareness leaves him, when once he counted the seconds between the pricks of needles and the cacophony of machines that beep around him he loses his metronome.

He shakes and sweats, at one point his eyes opening to see nothing but wild arcs of light, blue, red, yellow, like he's seeing through the lens of a camera whose exposure is long stretched. Caine hears something then – later when those cool hands sooth the fire of his skin he realizes what he heard were his own screams. 

Caine thinks he must've dreamt it, Balem's disembodied eyes hovering inches from his face, grey like the sky before a lightning storm, flecks of green within their depths – not at all the cold onyx one normally associates the eldest most volatile Abrasax heir with, but then again maybe he's just never seen them at this proximity. 

He hears snippets of sentences. Lone words that mean everything and nothing to him at the same time. _Detox_ , _neuro damage_ , _cook_ – he can't place the voice, not Chicanery Night, certainly not Greeghan, but Balem answers them easily enough, his voice a whisper amongst the beeping. “He'll make a full recovery.” And Balem says it with such certainty Caine feels sorry for whoever has drawn the job of putting him back together because Balem makes it clear that failure to do so is not an option. 

Lucidity comes to him in stages over a period of days – how if he moves his fingers slowly it sends gooseflesh up his arm, the twitching of impatient muscle beneath his skin, the lurch of his stomach when he shifts too fast. Bile lingers at the back of his throat when he eats, or is fed, the nurse, although a kind lady with dog-like ears, sets him on edge. 

And he marvels because his eyes are open and his lips are moving and Balem doesn't visit. 

It seems like weeks have passed when Balem finally graces Caine with his presence – he sweeps into the room on quiet feet, his scent Caine's belated warning. 

Caine jerks upright from light sleep, not intending to let Balem sneak away this time. He catches Balem mid-stride, and the royal hesitates for a fraction of a second before coming to stand at the bed side. 

“They tell me you're almost ready for release,” Balem murmurs casually, as if the entire ordeal isn't worth a mention. 

Caine notes how Balem holds himself. Tense, drawn inward, not at all the creature he last saw; he sees Greeghan's hulking form standing guard outside. Not even that is enough to calm Balem's obvious anxiety. 

“They tell me nothing,” Caine says slowly and he watches Balem's face for a reaction – a flutter of emotion hidden in the twitch of Balem's clenched jaw that would fool anyone. But not him. 

“There is nothing to tell,” Balem admits, his gaze distant. “They found nothing, even after all suspects were interrogated. Nothing was out of the ordinary, nobody came or went, the cooks didn't see anyone and the food they provided wasn't prepared by them.”

“Kalique was here that day,” Caine says. He wonders if it slipped Balem's mind. 

Balem certainly seems to freeze and Caine watches him pull out a small flat device from the folds of fabric. Deft fingers skim over its surface with purpose and Balem's face darkens as he studies the result of his work. Then, to Caine's surprise, he offers the datapad out. 

Caine accepts it, takes a few seconds to figure out what he's looking at. 

The security log is displayed in blue lettering, an in depth record of all the arrivals and departures. It lists names, businesses, even cyber criminals and gives the exact time of their arrival or departure and where they came from or were going. 

As Caine scrolls he finds no record of Kalique or her entourage – “She must have hired the best hacker in the system,” Caine comments as he reaches the end of the list. He gives Balem the datapad and risks looking up at him. 

Balem's face is stormy, that kind of still that suggests there's a war raging within his head. 

“There's no other explanation,” Balem says his voice cold. He turns to leave, stowing the datapad away and goes to take a step but Caine's hand shoots out. 

He's got Balem's wrist.

Caine feels Balem shudder in his hold, though the room is perfectly warm.

“I'm done lying around in this hospital,” Caine declares, his grip tightening. “I'm ready to get back to work.” 

He almost adds _please_. 

“In due time,” Balem says almost flippantly.

And Balem slips from his grasp like butter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Better late than never I suppose!


	5. Chapter 5

The Refinery is dull as usual. Caine stares out at the red gas that swirls beyond the dome shaped force field. Somewhere behind him Chicanery Night rambles on about quotas and the newest stock – a planet obtained via a debt some wealthy star goer owed Balem – his voice is oily, so Caine tunes the majority of it out in favour of listening to Balem movements.

It's been a full week since he was released from the hospital. A full week and Kalique has become illusive, any attempts to hail her have ended in nothing but static and a robotic voice informing them she is unavailable. Even Greeghan's sources fail to locate her, Titus on the other hand moves without impediment, buying and selling, out of system transactions that Greeghan confirms were Black District deals and Caine doesn't have to guess the nature of his purchases.

Neither does Balem.

Security is at a all time high. Caine carries an extra gun, never leaves Balem's side. He prefers it this way, he's sure the royal does too though all Balem ever gives him is stony glances, passive. It reminds him this is a job, a contract, there's no time for whatever happened in the hospital room.

He thinks often of Balem trembling in his gasp, even now he listens with perked ears as Balem exhales, hoping maybe to catch him like that again; vulnerable.

There's nothing, however, just the folds of Balem's robes as he moves past Chicanery, the conversation over. Caine follows.

As they walk Caine realizes he missed a few details. Balem is slightly off, his stride not as graceful – he looks paler in the bright lighting of the hall and Caine knows. They've only gone this route once before. 

He studies Balem harder, the back of his head where some hair has turned silver, where his freckles stand out even more on the aging skin of his nape and exposed shoulders. Caine only smells it now, degenerating cells – Balem suddenly trips over his own feet, Caine reacts. 

His hand is firm in the crook of Balem's arm. He gives the royal no option but to continue like this and to his surprise Balem offers no resistance, instead he leans heavily on Caine as they walk. 

The pool is exactly as it was on the ship. This one spreading out into the startling red of Saturn's toxic rings, each crimson swirl reflects on the glass-like surface. 

Now Balem pushes him away, his robes fall to his feet like leaves shed from a tree – granted there's no tree that is so pale and tapered as Balem.

Caine recalls Balem's words from the first time. How hungrily he had stared before getting caught. 

So he doesn't look away, instead studies Balem's naked movement, how lean muscle ripples beneath his skin – the water ripples in turn when he steps into it. When Balem disappears beneath the surface Caine holds his breath. 

He exhales when Balem reappears, Saturn's red glow playing off the water cascading down Balem's chest in rivulets. And Caine feels like the air has been punched out of his lungs because it's breathtaking, Balem is breathtaking. 

Balem rises from the pool like a God of old, majestic and dangerous. He leaves wet footprints over the tiled floor as he stalks forward.

Caine doesn't realize his mouth is hanging open until Balem's finger finds his chin. His mouth snaps shut, he inhales deeply, hopes the possible blush on his face will be written off as glow from Saturn. 

But Balem smirks, mirth and cunning mixing on his face and this is far from the cold looks and glares from the past week. 

Caine sways forward but Balem dances away, shrugs his shoulders as he dons grey silk that seems to shift its shade with each movement.

“You would,” Balem says slowly, he looks amused. “If I allowed it.”

Caine blinks and for a long moment remains silent. He processes Balem's words, looks away from the eldest Abrasax. Wonders at all the things Balem offers.

Two can play at this game.

“If you asked,” he replies, his voice a little too cold despite his want.

Balem says nothing, though when Caine next looks at him the warmth of his face has disappeared. Balem storms past him and he's afforded only a passing sniff of sweet, rain flooded soil before Balem is gone.

He follows despite his error, falls in step with Balem. 

“I didn't – ” Caine begins.

Balem whips around, turns on him so fast they almost collide. 

Caine can see it now, Balem's eyes are bright with something that isn't quite anger. Betrayal? 

“Don't think me a fool,” he hisses into Caine's face, “I _know_ what you want, I _know_ why you look – ”

“If you know why do you run?” 

There's a silence that follows Caine's interruption, Balem seems to choose his next words very carefully, the anger melts away. 

“I don't.”

Balem leans in, a long moment passes, his shuddering breaths tickle Caine's lips – then Balem closes the remaining distance between them and Caine has never tasted anything sweeter. 

His head is hazy with Balem, his hands burrow into silk, he slides his palm against the small of Balem's back, tugs him closer. 

The angle of their kiss changes, Caine bears down on Balem and there is no option but surrender. 

Balem yields, Caine is aware of slender fingers gripping his arms, and he feels a twinge of pain as nails dig into his skin – Balem pants hot air into his mouth, somehow Caine has found the wall and presses Balem to it.

His teeth find Balem's jaw, then lower and he sucks in the scent at Balem's throat, wonders if Balem knows his crime, how he lost himself and tore a smooth throat just like his apart. Balem's fingers tighten, one hand moves to Caine's hair, tugging his head in, if he knows he doesn't seem to care. 

Caine smirks at this, worries at Balem with his teeth – and Balem moans, grasping desperately at Caine, fingers in his hair pulling to the point of Caine's eyes watering.

A voice suddenly interrupts. Chicanery Night blares loud over the private intercom. 

“Your majesty, excuse the interruption,” he says. “We've located Kalique.”

“Where is she?” Balem asks, untangles himself from Caine, he sounds as though he's been running. 

Chicanery draws in a deep breath.

“Earth, my lord.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All your feedback is lovely, as usual.


	6. Chapter 6

Earth is a strange planet, advanced yet primitive. Every time Caine inhales he scents the industrial age. It lingers like spilled milk left to spoil, sour and oily. It sticks to his lungs. He's been here before, under a false name and even falser pretenses.

It's changed since then, but not by much. If anything it's louder, hotter, the air thick with exhaust from vehicles even when none are present, it doesn't take a specialist to see the planet itself is dying. This doesn't concern Balem in the slightest. 

Chicanery whispers directions in their ears until they stand before a dilapidated house. At first glance Caine believes it's abandoned but when he looks closer he sees the tell-tale signs of use. There's a perfect arc of dirt on the cement, newly disturbed by the front door swinging open and closed. Between the steps a dandelion is trampled. 

Caine's thumb caresses his gun as he steps forward. 

“I'll go first,” Caine says. “We don't know what security she might've set up.”

Balem yields to this easily enough. He nods curtly, lips pressed into a thin, tense line as Caine takes position in front of him. 

Everything on Earth is so dull, so muted, Caine thinks as he eases the creaky door open. There's no reflection, no constant switch for each light, no way to turn out the world completely. He feels hyper aware when he steps inside. Balem is approximately two feet behind him, close enough that Caine thinks maybe he can feel Balem's moist breath on his neck – he ticks it off as this regions natural heat and humidity. 

Inside it smells of Kalique, thick and sweet. It's a sickening scent, too strong, too concentrated. Caine moves with caution, his body angled as he prowls through empty rooms. The majority are still dusty with disuse.

And then oddly enough they find Kalique.

Caine trains his gun on her. She sits ramrod straight at a termite eaten table, her hair pulled back in a lazy ponytail that trails down between age marked shoulders. She shifts tiredly. 

“So your rats found me,” she says over her shoulder. Caine makes an effort to stay between her and Balem. 

“Of course,” Balem replies slowly, he sounds aged, like his voice is being dragged from somewhere deep within his chest. Pained. “The question is why they had to find you in the first place.”

“Oh, you know.” Kalique shrugs. 

Caine's eyes water when she moves, her sugary smell so strong he feels as though he might be sick. He muscles it down in favour of focusing on Balem behind him, a pinpoint of clarity.

“I don't.” Balem replies.

Kalique stands. “Why else would you hunt me, Balem, if not to kill me for alleged crimes.”

“I'm not so savage,” Balem says. 

“I am,” Kalique whispers and Caine realizes the others too late. Kalique's entourage, obvious mercenaries of the highest skill. They seem to melt from the walls in shadows.

“Why,” Balem asks somewhere between a silent order to Chicanery in orbit. 

“You killed mother reincarnated.” Kalique says angrily as she whirls around to face them. Her face is a mask of rage and wrinkles, the magic of her hires seems to envelope her in faded blue light. “Your reign of the Abrasax industry is over, _brother_."

“Who would help you?” 

Kalique grins and her khol lined eyes narrow. “There are rats everywhere, Balem.”

Caine sees them charge. Light gleams off a sleek knife. Kalique's face is frozen in time and Balem radiates behind him like a beacon. He bears his teeth, snarls, takes aim – and then he's staring into Chicanery's shocked face.

“ _Caine_ ,” Balem murmurs.

It takes Caine a moment before the sudden adrenaline of the unscheduled transport has worn off and he's able to lower his gun at Balem's command. 

“She had no intention of running or hiding,” Caine says. “She meant to draw you there in hopes of killing you for your inheritance.. Could she do that?” 

The legality of it all seemed very wishy washy. Everything would be in Balem's name, only acquired by his identification. “In the case of accidental death,” Chicanery says. “There is a bypass. It's a long and winding process and most don't bother with it, so possessions and property usually go to the state, but in the case of an Abrasax heir, well, it'd be worth the paperwork.” 

Caine nods. Balem owns galaxies and within those galaxies planets full of life waiting to be harvested.

“Mr. Night, take us back to the Refinery,” Balem cuts through his thoughts. 

“Of course,” Chicanery replies as Balem sweeps past him. Caine follows closely and watches as the Earth clothes Balem wore melt into familiar robes. 

The fabric laps at freckled skin and in spite of everything Caine finds himself envying the black silk. 

-

Caine patrols slowly, walking the length of the observation deck windows as Balem lounges in the centre of the room, the tips of his fingers pressed together. 

“Did she poison me?” Caine asks rather belatedly. 

“I don't know, she wears enough poison, of that I'm sure.”

The sickly sweet smell of sugar makes sense now. How Caine's head felt ready to burst, his focus rendered utterly useless around her. It was thicker on Earth, not like the first time he met her, just a heady lungful of it from the swish of her dress as she promised to pay Balem a visit later. 

“She'll come after you,” Caine says. 

“Perhaps,” Balem replies rising from his chair. “But that's why I hired you.”

“I could've killed her on Earth.”

“You could've,” Balem agrees and he moves toward the door. “Come, enough of Kalique.”

Caine presses his lips together and follows. 

Balem leads him to a vast room full of steam. His clothes instantly cling to him, wet with the condensation. It takes a long moment before he realizes where they are

“Baths?” He asks incredulously. 

“I reek of Earth,” Balem says simply. “The serum water doesn't cleanse, only regenerates.”

“Oh,” Caine says dumbly. 

Balem is only a few paces ahead of him but the steam threatens to swallow him up. Caine hears Balem's robes fall to the tile more than he sees it, though he _does_ see Balem's shoulders as they're bared. 

“You may join me, if you wish.” Balem says before disappearing into the steam. 

Caine stands idle. There's something akin to anxiety rolling around in his stomach. It was a clear invitation. 

Caine sucks in a deep breath and makes his decision. 

He strips methodically, folding each article and setting it all in a neat pile. It's almost a homage to his military life, before he landed himself in trouble, before he was discharged and his wings taken. The scars on his back seem to burn at the thought.

The bath, however, burns hotter than phantom pain as he wades blindly into it. Any tension he might've felt before dissipates with the heat, melts into the water as he sinks down until he's submerged. When he surfaces he's aware of Balem's presence instantly. 

“So you're a fish now,” Balem says.

Caine remains still when hands find him beneath the water, fingers curling along his hip, smoothing up his stomach.  
“Not a fish,” he replies, leans in. Balem's face is flushed with the heat, his mouth looks inviting. 

“No?” 

“She called me a guard dog,” Caine says. This makes Balem frown and, to Caine's dismay, loses him the royals touch. Balem floats away. 

Caine stares into the water. 

“I didn't mean to mention her.” 

“But you did.” Balem snaps from the far side of the bath.

Caine dares to join him, his eyes downcast. 

“She puzzles me,” he admits. “But there will be other times to discuss her. You came here to forget her betrayal.”

“Yes,” Balem breathes. 

Caine holds his own breath. “I'd gladly help you in that venture..”

Balem doesn't respond right away. He hesitates. The air seems to grow thicker and then the water shifts as Balem leans against the baths edge, his stormy eyes narrowed.

“Then make me forget, _dog_.”


End file.
